


ocean's wide but i can swim it

by tremontaine



Series: holy city [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angry Sex, Femsub, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, OT3, PWP, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are they actually fighting?”</p>
<p>Sam looked over at her curiously. Then he said, “Kind of but not really, I think.”</p>
<p>Sharon sighed. “Who-else-are-they-gonna-be-mad-at kind of fight?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ocean's wide but i can swim it

“Well that was the most uncomfortable van ride I’ve ever been on,” said Sharon thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” said Sam.

“Are they actually fighting?”

Sam looked over at her curiously. Then he said, “Kind of but not really, I think.”

Sharon sighed. “Who-else-are-they-gonna-be-mad-at kind of fight?”

“I think so.” Suddenly he touched her knee. “What about you?”

She smiled. “What about _you_?”

He shrugged silently.

“Come on,” she said.

“I don’t understand it,” he said, and the words seemed to burst out of him in a tear of anger, quickly controlled. “I don’t understand how you look at a person, at a human being, and you say to yourself, _that’s a thing_. I don’t – that. That makes you not human. That ability. That… total lack of – of empathy.”

“I don’t know how they keep it from eating them up,” said Sharon. “You know. That anger.”

“Some days I don’t know how I keep it from eating _me_ up.”

She laughed, but it wasn't particularly mirthful. Then she said, “Let’s get a beer.”

Sam said, “Sounds good to me.”

+++

They watched the black SUV disappear around the corner from the front porch, Steve’s hand on the door handle, reluctant to go in, to trek the dust and mud and bloodstains of the raid into the home they shared. Natasha stood a step below him, holding herself impossibly still; she felt she might vibrate out of her skin if she didn’t. Then, a shiver running through his body as he gave himself a shake, Steve unlocked the front door and they walked in. The house loomed around them, darker and quieter than usual; it was a moonless night and neither of them could bring themselves to put the lights on. There was an unpleasantly fusty smell in the air. Two weeks: they never kept the windows shut so long, even in winter. It was a toss-up between the cold and the fresh air, but ultimately the fresh air usually won.

Natasha locked the door behind them. “Nothing yet?” Even she could hear the strain in her voice to keep it steady.

“Nothing.” Steve was brusque. “Just like the last six times you asked.”

“God, excuse me for being worried about our boyfriend.”

“He’s not six. And Barton’s with him.”

“Barton _is_ six.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Steve, scathing.

He must have known, saying it, saying it in that tone, that it was the perfect excuse. They both knew exactly which buttons to push, after all this time. Natasha clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms; the sting helped hide the rush of relief that was coursing through her body, the flare of joy that he had given her the opening she needed.

“Don’t be a robot,” she said, making her voice as sharp as she knew how. “Stamping around being reasonable and calm because you’re too good for feelings.”

“And since when have _you_ considered your emotions important enough to listen to?”

Oh, oh fuck him. Anger closed her throat up, shook her body head to toe. This could’ve been a lovely, vicious, air-clearing sort of fight; they could’ve thrown furniture and yelled and barricaded themselves in separate rooms till James got back, but that one question sliced through all her lines of attack, given that the answer, of course, was _since I fell in love with you_.

Natasha snarled. Robbed of the fight she wanted, crawling out of her skin with left-over adrenaline and impotent fury, the helpless need to track down every HYDRA scumbag who had ever set foot in that base and rip them slowly limb from limb, she moved too quick even for Steve to defend against, tripped him to the floor and kissed him, vicious, all teeth and blood and anger.

After that everything got a bit – well – she didn’t think she’d ever had sex like it, not with either of them. He ripped her clothes off and bit at her skin and left bruises on her hips; she gouged bloody scratches into his chest and didn’t bother doing more than unfastening his pants before she sank onto his cock and rode him through the wooden floor and into the _basement_ , and all the while Steve was utterly silent and she was utterly furious and it didn’t help a bit, not a second of it. When he came he bucked up into her so hard it nearly hurt, and when she fell sideways onto the floor, panting, she felt his come slipping out of her, painting her thighs, and she felt, if anything, worse than before.

He was breathing hard too. For hours neither of them moved. Natasha closed her eyes, preferring total darkness to the dim outline of his body beside her, the faint suggestion of his much-loved face in the dimness.

Then Steve’s phone rang. He had dropped it somewhere with the shield and had to stand up to fetch it, but it wasn’t James, it was Sharon’s people. Steve answered a few short questions, snapped out a string of orders about the containment. Natasha lay and looked at him, the odd glow that the phone screen cast over his face, leaving him half in shadow, her head pounding and her body aching and every emotion she had too fucking much to bear, too much to handle on her own, and wanted to scream.

So then - the solution was obvious, and elegant, and perfect. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Natasha pushed herself up; she forced her pounding head to silence and she knelt, half her clothes ripped off her and her cunt and thighs sore and sticky, at his feet.

She thought she could get off for the rest of her life to the memory of the look on his face as he hung up the phone.

“Play with me,” she said, and even at the first word the pressing, helpless fury, the mess of ghosts clamouring in her head began to recede, the tension left her body, the world outside shrank away into unimportance. “Anything you want.”

Steve dropped the phone. His uniform was ripped open, his pants hanging off his hips, his cock still exposed, on his chest the scratches she’d left were already healing. “Tasha,” he said. In the darkness she thought the only colour left in the world was the blue of his eyes.

“Steve,” she said richly, let her voice purr with want. He was so – so open to her, for her: everything on display, anger, lust, old bad memories, tightly leashed but perfectly visible if you knew how to look. If he let you know where to look. He was shaking out of his skin. If they fucked again now they’d tear each other up, if she slapped him around he’d push back even harder. If she didn’t give herself away, here, now, she thought she might actually rip herself apart from the inside out, fall to pieces with her next movement, her next breath. “I’m yours. If you want it.”

He went to his knees in front of her, his fingers on her face, in her hair. Yes, love, yes. Give him something to do, someone to take care of, something in the here and now to love and to protect, drag him out of that impotent anger – and, at the same time, have her own ghosts chased away, her nerves settled, her fears soothed. He would peel them away from her one by one and make her feel whole, wanted... cherished. Remind her she was loved; remind her she belonged to him and he to her and both of them to James; remind her it was a long way from the cold grey-walled facility she’d been raised in, the secret torture-chamber that looked so much like the one they had just raided.

Steve saw better in the dark than she did; perhaps he saw something in her face. He sighed, long and low, and she saw the way his body language changed, the tenseness put aside, the anger gone, replaced by something still authoritative but far gentler. "Tasha," he said again, not surprised now but soft and warm and wondering. He kissed her, slow and warm, soothing her bitten lips, coaxing noises out of her with every catch of their mouths, every touch of his tongue: little sighs, a gasp, a moan. She kept her hands in her lap; the wooden floor was cool under her bare legs, knees beginning to ache.

“Strip for me,” he said softly, and all her bones melted. She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his face, pulling at her jacket, the top and the sports bra that he’d wrenched about to reach her breasts. Naked, she smiled at him, the first real smile that had crossed her face in three days, and saw him answer it. He kissed her again, a little more luxuriously, wet and deep, tugging her close, and she leant towards him, turned herself over to him, eyes closed now, sighing. She wasn’t angry anymore: he hadn’t told her she could be. She wasn’t afraid: he was here and she was his… And Steve: Steve needed tasks, needed to know he was useful, needed to know he was loved and wanted, capable of protecting the people he loved... 

“Stand up.” He drew her up with him, hands steadying her, stroked her filthy hair out of her face. “Open your eyes, love, look at me. There. Strip me.” The uniform was heavier than her own, armoured as it was, but she never usually felt the weight of it, not the way she was now. She had to step in close and slide her arms under his to undo the clasp of the harness that carried his shield. It fell apart with a click, and she worked each half off his shoulders and arms, dropped the leather loops to the floor. The top half of the uniform – you couldn’t really call it a jacket – followed; the undershirt that was bunched under his armpits. Her fingertips ghosted over her own scratches. He laughed, shivered. Pants, boxer-briefs: she ran her hands over his hips and down, pushing them off, went to her knees again to unbuckle his boots. Impatient, he helped her with that, tossing the tangle of boots and socks and pants away and pulling her back to her feet, his hands warm on her shoulders. The house was big and silent and very empty, very dark; very cold.

“Upstairs.” He kissed her. “Let’s go upstairs. We’ll shower, hmm, I’ll wash your hair.” Natasha closed her eyes, smiling again. “Then we’ll eat, yeah, we’ll order a takeaway.”

Oh, this had been a good, good decision. She knew it. The best. Never in a million years would he have done those things for himself, not in that mood. Tell the truth: no more than she would have. He drew her close, stroked his hands down her back, kissed her hair, her upturned face. “I love you.” She pressed her hands against his chest, felt the thump of his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin. “Did I hurt you? Before?”

“Oh!” She nuzzled his chest, rubbed her nose through the fine blond hair, smiling. “You’ve never hurt me.” He trembled; she didn’t know why. “I love you.”

“Tasha,” he said. His hand was in her hair again; this kiss had an edge of passion, a promise. Her body was growing light, shivery, hot to the touch.

“Will you fuck me?” she murmured. “When we’ve eaten? Or before. In the shower.” She smiled against his lips. “Wherever you want me.”

He bit at her lower lip, sucked on her tongue, smiling. “You ever known me be able to keep my hands off you?” As if in illustration he gripped her hips, strong fingers pressing into her ass, one thumb below the Odessa scar, and when he lifted her she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms over his shoulders. Oh, looking down at him was lovely, the streaks of dirt and blood and sweat hidden in the dark; all she could see was the glint of his smile, his eyes wide and watching her.

“Talk to me,” he said.

“About what?”

He laughed. “I don’t know. What we’ll do tomorrow morning. What we’ll do to Bucky when he gets home.”

That was easy. “Get him on your lap in the armchair so I can ride him.” Hold him between them and make love to him till none of them could bear it, watch him writhe and sigh and pull them closer, fuck himself on Steve, drag Natasha down onto his cock; she thought she knew what he would say to them, something about what fools they both were, she and Steve, and how much he loved them; half-coherent, wholly meant promises never to be apart from one another again.

“Yeah.” Steve stepped easily around the scattered clothes in the hall, his shield, her gunbelt, but he took his hand off her to find the bannister of the staircase as he carried her up. Words went lost; she cupped the back of his head in her hands, biting her lip. At the top of the stairs he stopped for a moment to kiss her collarbone, her neck, his breath rushing over her skin. She was a little cold, tired, less aroused than she’d thought. That didn’t matter. Steve carried her into the bathroom, and for the first time he turned a light on; it made her jump, made both of their eyes water.

Then she started laughing. “Oh my god, we’re a mess.”

Steve laughed too. “Here. Sit on the edge.” It was fucking cold, and she glowered at him, but that just got her a kiss. “Wait here for me.” He reached back and turned the shower on, let it run hot so the steam filled up the room. Natasha gripped the edge of the bath with her hands to either side of her thighs and waited for him, legs stretched out in front of her. It really was cold. In the light she could see the burn on her knees from the hall floor, the bruises, the dirt. The light was unbearably bright, fluorescent, clinical – like a doctor’s office, or an operating –

“Natasha, look at me.” Hands on her face, calloused and warm. Steve, Steve. “Are you OK?”

She drew a breath. “No. Not – don’t stop. I’m just. Not really OK.”

He went to his knees in front of her, hands still on her face. “Neither am I.”

Natasha hadn’t expected him to admit it. It shivered right through her; made her smile. “I love you,” she said again, basking in the look it put on his face. They kissed, just as slow as before.

“Still with me?” he asked at last. “Please say yes.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, teasing. “You don’t let me look after you very often.”

She shivered. “It’s not because – because I don’t love you, or trust you, or –“

“Sweetheart, I know that.”

“You don’t let me look after you, either. You don’t even let James look after you, and I was sure you would. Him, at least.”

He was silent for a minute. “Him most of all.”

Oh. She nearly smiled. “It’s that way for me with you.”

He took her hands in his and kissed her palms, lashes dropping, so fine the light shimmered in them. Then he looked up at her again, and he was smiling. “What a pair.”

Weren’t they just. Natasha said, “Still yours… always yours, really…”

That prompted another kiss, achingly gentle. Their noses bumped; his hands were cupping her head, her neck. “I love you,” he said. “Hate you knowin’ what a mess I am sometimes… feel like you deserve better.”

“Don’t ever say that.”

“Shh.” He brushed another kiss across her lips; pressed one to her forehead. “It’s all right. It’s just my head – tying me in knots. I love you. Gonna be so good to you now, I promise.” Mischief tugged his mouth into a smile. “Make you regret giving it up, Agent Romanov who doesn’t like to be taken care of.”

He’d brought clean towels and underwear from the bedroom; drew her to her feet now and pulled her under the spray with him. In seconds the water sluicing down the drain was frankly filthy. The shower cubicle wasn’t really big enough for two, let alone when one of the two was as big as Steve; one of them was always standing out of the spray. Steve stood her under it, kissed her.

“Hold still,” he said, and poured the gel she used over his hands. Methodical, he started at her neck and shoulders and worked his way down: right arm, left arm, torso, back, right leg, left leg. His touch was gentle, rubbing the lather over her skin, wiping away the crusted bloodstains on her wrists, the unpleasant stickiness of dried sweat, and his face – all the anger had gone out of it – all the tension too – soft and solemn and calm, and when the water had sluiced all the lather away he kissed her bruises and her scars. Hadn’t it been hours? The hot water pounding ceaselessly on her skin was deliciously comforting, and his touch eased all the tension in her body. She looked down at that wet blond head, the big hands steadying her hips as he pressed his mouth gentle to the old burn scar on her left thigh. A conscious thought appeared on the horizon; she moved her hands to touch his face, though he hadn’t told her she might.

He looked up at her and smiled; it was breathtaking. He knew of course what she wanted – needed: an order – something to do for him, something that would make him happy. “Yeah. Go on then.” When he stood up she had, through the dreamy haze of thoughtlessness, One Of Those Moments, the ones where it crashed in on her just how much bigger he was than she. It was safe, here, it was all right to be small and soft and defenceless… he would die before he hurt her, before he let anything hurt her. And he understood the relief of vulnerability, the freedom of powerlessness.

The furrows her nails had dug into his chest in the hall downstairs were healed, but she stroked her hands over the faint red marks as gently as if they were still bleeding, rubbed away the dirt… at first he was tense under her hands, but slowly she felt him relax, and when he tipped his head back against the wall of the shower stall and sighed she felt the little thrill of a job well done, the delight of having pleased him. When she reached his genitals she touched him with a little more intent than he had her, and a laugh went through him, shivery and happy. She bit back a smile. Looked up at him.

“Stand up,” he said softly. It was impossible not to pout. “Wash your face.” He really was being impossibly careful with her – once and only once had either of them put a hand over her mouth when they were playing. But she thought that him washing her face would have been all right. But it wasn’t up to her; nothing was up to her… He washed his own; shampooed and rinsed his hair quick and perfunctory. Then he turned her, tugged her back under the spray, his hands on her shoulders. She settled against his chest, sighing, and watched his hands take the shampoo again, pour out a generous dollop on his palm.

“Close your eyes.”

His fingers rubbed slow firm circles over her scalp, massaging shampoo into her hair, caressing her temples, and her head was lolling helplessly around, her body loose and pliant, held up by his own. The spray was against her lower torso, her abdomen; it was turned up so hot it had been a little uncomfortable on her breasts. Her skin was pinking beautifully, and the skin of her fingers was hopelessly wrinkled, and when he had rinsed her hair clean he stroked the short rope of it over her right shoulder and kissed her left, the side of her neck. His hands touched her hips, her waist; cupped her breasts gently.

“Talk to me.”

She roused herself slowly, like waking from a long sleep to his kisses. “What about?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said simply. There weren’t other words. Steve understood.

“I’m glad.” He turned her again to face him and kissed her. She breathed out, shuddering, into his mouth, kissed back slowly, their wet mouths catching, sliding together easily, his arms holding her tight; she was leaning up on her toes, trusting him to balance her. Then he reached out to turn the water off; Natasha nuzzled along his jaw, pressed her nose against the side of his neck and breathed in the smell of shower gel, shampoo, his warm body. They stepped out of the shower stall, moving in tandem. Steve dried her off as gently as he’d washed her, but the undertone was deliciously different: the soft terrycloth teased her nipples, the long firm caresses down her back that she loved, brush of fabric over her cunt, her inner thighs.

“Here.” Kneeling in front of her again, he pushed her back gently till she was leaning against the basin; then he dropped the towel. “Spread your legs for me.” She widened her stance, gripped the edge of the basin with both hands. He nuzzled at her for an agonising minute, nose in her damp pubic hair, then further down, exploratory, as if it were the first and not the thousandth time he’d had his mouth on her.

Finally the touch of his thumbs spreading her, the long wet stroke of his tongue along her slit. Natasha’s knees trembled. She had come, downstairs in the hall, but it had been short and sharp and suffused with anger; this was better. Steve licked her gentle and slow till she grew wet again, her breath short, her body tight and shivery, hot all over and gasping with the effort of not rocking her hips into his face, of staying still for him the way he wanted. It felt so good, so incredibly good… the basin at her back was irrelevant, the hot steamy air of the bathroom was almost a touch on her skin. But he didn’t bring her off, mouth glistening with her slick when he smiled up at her. She could have cried.

“Want to be inside you… want to feel you come around me, know how good I’ve made you feel when you go tense and tight around me. Not here though. We’ve got a bed, remember? Gonna lay you out in it, make it slow… draw it out.” He kissed her stomach, her ribs, her breasts – paused there to play with her nipples, make her squirm. The water had all but dried on his skin while he teased her, and when he stood he lifted her easily, just like before. She put her arms over his shoulders again, her legs round his waist.

“Could get used to this,” she said, dreamy.

Steve laughed quietly. “Could get used to you letting me.”

“I’ll try,” she whispered, barely knowing what she said. “For you, I’ll try.”

His smile was sharp and shadowed. He kissed her quick. “No carry-over. I love you for being you.”

Natasha bent her head over his and clasped him close. “It’s not carry-over. It’s a bad habit.” She kissed his temple, the side of his face. “I love you.”

The bedroom light was on; the window was open, leaving the room chill but fresh, and he had changed the sheets, before – she hadn’t realised he’d left her so long. He toppled her into the middle of the bed, crawling over her; they were both laughing when he took her hands in his and drew them over her head, pinning them to the mattress. She arched her back, rolled her head to the side. Her hair would be a disaster in the morning, leave a wet patch on the sheet, but it wasn’t up to her to care, not now.

Everything was his. Solid warmth above her; their breathing in tandem; the way his mouth curled around a smile. She hadn’t noticed when he’d grown hard again, but he was, the head of his cock sliding against her cunt, wet and hot. For a second or two that was fine, just fine; then it was unbearable, and she was trembling with the need to twist up against him, to move her hips in just the right way so the next time he twitched his hips against her like that he’d be inside her.

But he hadn’t said she could. She closed her eyes against the look on his face, the wonder and the love. She felt him spread his knees, shift his position; it pushed her own further apart, the hairs on his legs rubbing against the soft skin of her inner thighs; then – he kissed her – pushed inside her. Natasha gasped, mouth opening under his, taut and trembling. He was so big, hot and heavy inside her, filling her up and pinning her down.

“Natasha,” he said, strained, full of delight. “Natasha.” When he pulled back it was unbearable; when he thrust back in she arched her back and clenched around him, stay there, just stay there, just stay in me, but he laughed harshly. “Stop that. Let me have it…”

He already did. She tightened her fingers, interlaced with his, that was allowed at least, she was looking up at his face as he found the perfect rhythm, deep and slow, watching the way he bit his mouth, the flutter of his eyelashes, the spreading flush along his cheekbones and down his face. Every push of his cock inside her was – there wasn’t a word, not just now. She lost herself in it just the way he wanted her to, hot skin and slide of sweat, the noises he was making, the stuttering of his breath with effort, the noises she was making, rich needy moans, the spiralling tightness in her thighs and her stomach, wound up further and further as he fucked her. She pushed up against his hands and cried out softly when she found them immovable, when she knew she was trapped, no way out… no choices to make, no decisions possible, no options and no possibilities, nothing but the mattress beneath her, the lamplight on his face, the blank, physical delight of being fucked; the more-than-physical delight of being owned, being free.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, love, you’re mine, I’ve got you, you’re not going anywhere, swear to god we’re never leaving this bed again. The things I wanna do to you…”

Oh, oh god. She gasped – in any state but this she’d feel a touch of trepidation, Steve’s ideas were less frequent than James’ but tended to make up for this in sheer filthiness – he needed to keep talking; he knew how much she loved the sound of his voice, knew it tethered her to herself and sent her sky-high. He was laughing, pleased with himself. “Yeah. One day, love, when you want this again, when you kneel for me so perfect the way you did in the hall, gonna bring you up here and get you naked, work you all up, make sure you’re wet for us. And then I’m gonna leave you here. All day. Stay in this bed sweet and needy and open and wet and take us whenever we want, whenever we feel like it. Just walk upstairs and use you, mess you all up again and again. Think Bucky would like that? Answer me.”

Answer him, was he crazy. There was nothing slow and gentle about the fucking she was getting now; the bed was groaning with it and every thought in her head was being jangled around, her skin felt tight and fire-hot, she was so close, she knew she was, so fucking close.

But he’d told her to speak. Mouth gone dry, she licked at her lips till she could answer: “Yes, god, I know he would.”

“Would you?” Of all the stupid fucking questions. He laughed again. “I know, I know you would, nothing in the world you like more than us holding you down and holding you open and taking you again and again, but I want to hear you say it.”

So she did. “Yes. Yeah I’d want it, want to be yours so totally you don’t even think about, want never to come out of it, lie here alone and still feel you in me and know you’ll come back and do it again, have me again, Steve, _Steve_...” He had a pace now that was driving her mad, making her mindless, splitting her open for him again and again, driven on by her voice as his twisted her higher. She arched against him again, pushed at his hands, felt the enveloping sweep of helplessness when his hands stayed unmoved. She was trapped and she was his and she couldn’t stand it, couldn’t –

“Go on,” he said by her ear, “told you I want to feel it when you come, let me have it, let me see –“

Her nails dug bloody crescents into the skin between his knuckles; that, she knew, was what pushed him over with her, the spike of pain running through the pleasure. Breathing hard, she wrapped herself around him more tightly still, his hips twitching against hers with aftershocks that set off her own. It was easy, afterwards, to speak; she always felt like a sunny morning after rain, washed-clean, bright and new and happy.

“I suppose by our standards it was drawn out.” She made that noise again – the awful one she couldn’t keep back when she was with him or James – the _giggle_.

Steve snorted. “Was that some sort of slur on my stamina?”

“No, I meant –“ she started laughing, punch-drunk, and he laughed with her; the bed shook with it. When he pulled his hands away from hers and she brought her arms down she gasped a little, feeling stiff; he kissed her, contrite.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhhh, don’t ruin it.” She wriggled delightedly, still trapped underneath him; if he didn’t move out of her in about another minute he’d be hard again and then it would be round three; she didn’t have the energy for herself, but she’d blow him happily.

“Here.” He kissed her again and drew out of her carefully, caressing her legs as she let them fall to his sides. “Better clean up.” Kissed her knee and stood: a little unsteady on his legs. Natasha stretched, a long luxurious arch of her body, and grinned smugly up at the ceiling. Her bones were water. Without Steve above her she was growing cold, perspiration drying on her skin, and her wet hair was probably soaking the mattress. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care about anything. When Steve came back he had a damp washcloth and a towel; the washcloth was warm but she still shivered at the touch on her thighs. For a moment she wanted to push his hand away and do it herself. It was odd that she could kneel at his feet and tell him to do what he wanted with her without flinching but, in the aftermath, the sweet, ordinary little intimacy of him wiping her clean was too much to bear.

“Natasha,” he said, and his palm rubbed along her thigh. “Still with me?”

Surprised, she blinked at him. He had a trick of looking utterly solemn but completely joyful at the same time, and he was using it now. After a moment, she said softly, “Yes.”

Steve bent and kissed her. “My beautiful girl.” Oh, crap. “Relax, sweetheart. I love you so much, you were so good to me, so good. So beautiful to watch, always.” Her eyes closed. The warm voice – hoarse but gentle – wrapped itself around her thoughts again, and oh it was easy to go back under, so easy. She floated. She cared for nothing but him. This time, when he touched her with the washcloth, she only sighed.

“Sit up for me.”

Was he joking. But she pushed herself up, hand on the mattress, and he sat beside her, at right angles to her so she was trapped in the v of his legs, one of them at her back, the other cocked over her own thighs. Most of the water from her hair was in the mattress by now but he still rubbed it dry with the towel as gently as he’d washed it, and she sighed and leant back against his knee and let herself drift in it. Finished, he tugged her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her, kissed her neck and shoulder. Her face rested against his bicep, above the crook of his elbow, still a little damp with sweat. She wasn’t cold any more.

“I kept thinking,” he said suddenly, “I kept thinking I should’ve stopped all this. And I – I looked at Sharon once and I thought, Peggy, why the fuck didn’t you know, why couldn’t you have saved him, protected them…”

She clutched him tight, wordless.

“It wasn’t fair. I know that. Operation Paperclip was above her paygrade then, and Pierce – even Pierce was a good man, once.” Yes, for a little while, for a few decades, until frustration and despair wore him down, until Nick’s actions in the Bogota crisis showed him the illusion of an easier way. Natasha wondered sometimes if even that would have tipped him over if it had not been his daughter who had been taken hostage. “And it’s selfish of me, because god knows it wasn’t me who went through that. It’s not about me. And yet.”

She didn’t know what to say. Steve kissed her shoulder again. “Talk to me.” It was a question, this time.

“There’s nothing to say,” she said at last. “It’s cute that you think you could’ve made a difference.” He laughed harshly. “Not cute. I’m sorry. But – sweet. That you want to have.” She shrugged. Her gaze was on the mattress, the rumpled sheet, the duvet folded at the end of the bed. “Imagine that you did. Imagine you’re both ninety and old and think of me as – I don’t know – Nick’s particularly murderous protégé.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? It’d be true. Or maybe not. Would I ever have been human if I hadn’t had James to love? And then there was you.” She sighed. “But this is all – all nonsense. It’s not about you, and I’m too old to make it about me. My past is my own, and I’m done with it. Sometimes it comes back to make life difficult, but when it does I come to you and to James and I remember – I remember it’s the past, and this isn’t.” She felt him stir, felt his breath catch. “I love you,” she said. “I don’t need anything else.”

She thought, from the way he held her, and the brush of his face against her neck and shoulder, that he was crying, at least a little. “I love you.”

They were both silent then for a long while. Surely it was so late by now that outside the sky would be growing pale; once or twice a car rumbled past in the streets, but beyond that there was no sound at all in the world, nothing but Steve’s breathing and her own. Natasha closed her eyes and drifted along the edge of a doze, utterly content, utterly safe. At last Steve raised his head again and kissed her hair, her temple. “Lie down…” Sink into the pillows, sighing; she watched him leave the bed to turn the lights off, his body pale in the darkness when he came back to bed. He drew the duvet over them, wrapped himself around her, spooning her. Oh this was perfect.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“Let’s get brunch and go to the park.”

“Yeah, OK. I’ve got a pile of books to finish.”

“Me too. I’m reading Nancy Mitford, she’s vicious. It’s great.”

He laughed quietly. “I think Bucky took the Cold War history I was reading with him… ass. Never mind…”

No. The house was full of books, it always had been. They would sprawl under a tree somewhere together and read, surrounded by ordinary, happy people leading ordinary, happy lives… it would be peaceful, sunny and warm, a reminder of why they did what they did, and a promise… maybe James would be back in time to find them there…

+++

When Natasha woke it was fully daylight, probably around noon. She was still lying tucked safe in the curve of Steve’s body; his cock was half-hard against her ass and his breath was stirring her hair.

James was sitting on the bed next to them, enticingly naked and damp.

“You mighta left me some hot water.”

Halfway through a yawn, a giggle broke out; she muffled it in the pillow. “I’m sorry.”

“You mighta tidied up your mess in the hall as well. Barton nearly had a heart attack.”

“What! Oh _no_.” Natasha wasn’t coming out of the pillow any time soon, she really wasn’t. God alone knew what had happened to her underwear yesterday, Steve had literally ripped her panties off her… Behind her Steve said, “Oh my _god_ ,” in tones of muffled horror, and she felt the groan rumble through his chest.

James laughed at them. “He didn’t see anything. You think I’d let him? Mind you,” mischievous, “made my shower a lot more interesting. Even if it was cold.”

“Nat had plans for you,” Steve said.

“Nat hates you,” said Natasha.

“Not so much she’d shove me out of bed, I’m betting,” said James, and pushed them both over so he could crawl under the covers with them. “Was it bad?” he asked quietly.

They were both silent for a minute. Then Steve said, “I was glad you weren’t there.”

James drew a sharp breath. Then he sighed. It was always unpredictable, what he could handle; he’d stood in front of the cryo chamber they had imprisoned him in and not blinked, but Banner’s lab in Stark Tower had been too much. “Better not to risk it. Thank you for handling that.” His voice was still quiet, but very steady.

“Of course,” Natasha said. She stroked the curve of his cheekbone with her fingertip, and he closed his eyes and smiled.

“You slept yet?” Steve asked.

“Not really,” James admitted. He found sleep difficult, outside this house, and it didn’t help that he could go for days without it.

“Then how about you sleep,” Natasha said; kissed him softly. “We’re here.”

“I love you,” James said. “I can’t tell you both how much.”

“You don’t need to,” Steve said. “Just sleep, OK. You’re home now.”

James sighed. “I am.”

The park would still be there tomorrow. Natasha closed her eyes again, smiling.

 

 

 

 


End file.
